The Psychology of Rejection
by Mindy35
Summary: GALEX. Post-ep for 1.03. Rejection makes people do strange things.


Rating: T, adult themes  
Disclaimer: Not mine, you know whose  
Spoilers: Not really  
Pairing: Gene/Alex  
Summary: Post-ep for 1.03. Rejection makes people do strange things.

* * *

They're still at the bar when the late edition of the news comes on. Most of the CID lads have moved on to the local strip joint. Never one to learn too much from a case, even one involving a battered sex-worker, Ray led the sloppy but celebratory charge. Shaz and Chris left shortly after to catch a late screening of "Time Bandits", while Viv headed off to a family gathering. The two of them stuck around, waiting to see if the lovers occupying their usual corner table might take their canoodling elsewhere.

They hadn't.

Gene peers over his shoulder at the perm-haired woman and the man with his tongue down her throat. The man's greedy hand has been inching its way towards his date's arse all evening and it finally hits its target. He lifts his brows as one round, denim-ed cheek receives a good squeeze. Alex whacks his shoulder with the back of her hand, shooting him a look of reproof when he turns back to face her. She pours him another drink, then herself one.

They've progressed from frothy champagne to a primal chianti. The red rims their eyes and slurs their speech, slowing their usually sharp reactions and lowering their usually fierce inhibitions. Her body sways in her seat as she twists to catch the re-aired report on Ryan Burns' arrest. When the newsreader proceeds to the next story, she turns back, placing a hand on the bar to steady herself and wagging her head woefully at the wood.

"Rejection," she murmurs with limp gravity. "It makes people do straaange things."

Gene's head dips in a half-nod. "O-kay."

Her eyes squint at his face. "What d'you mean, 'okay'?"

He slumps in his shirtsleeves, rotates his glass on the bar. "I mean _o-kay_ , obviously there's some incoherent piece of psycho-babble you feel the need to get off y' chest so let's 'ave it."

"I was just thinkin' aloud," she mutters, wafting a hand, "tha's all. Thinkin' about the case…."

He plants a finger on the bar, stabbing for emphasis. "I'll give you fifty quid, 'ere and now, if what you were about to say had _anything_ at all to do with Ryan Burns and nothin' whatever to do with your sweet self."

She scowls at him, slumping a little lower. "Keep y' money."

He hums and sips his drink. "S'what I thought…"

She pushes up from the bar. "But for the record—"

"'Ere we go," he mutters into his chest.

"What I was _about to sa_ y had nothing to do with _me_ ," she points at herself then brandishes her finger at him, "and everything to do with _you_. You and your big manly ego that couldn't stand being rejected—"

He straightens indignantly. "When was I?"

"In that parking lot. When I told you you could never have me," she leans in close, eyes thin and groggy and glinting, "Not even if you paid for it—"

"A statement you punctuated," he spits, cupping his still-tender jaw, "by smackin' me in the chops so 'ard I lost a filling!"

"Exactly!" Her face lights up and arm sweeps through the air in vindication. "A _double_ blow to the ego. Meaning that later, when I offered you a night of harmless, meaningless sex," she gives the word an innocent shrug before stepping her voice up an octave, "instead of jumping at the chance _like you know you wanted to_ , you bloody abandoned me!"

Gene slides his glass aside, leaning forward on both forearms. "At which point, _you_ , Mrs Champers-Pants, feelin' all rejected, bedded some twat you didn't even fancy before flouncing into my station lookin' three kinds o' seedy and pointin' the finger at _yours truly_ for doing the decent thing! Hey, look at that—!" His eyes blaze and body bristles. "Looks like I'm gettin' the hang o' this psychology crap."

"The decent thing?" She throws back her head in a scathing scoff. "Bollocks. You did the _scared_ thing. You backed off because you were intimidated." She scoots her butt forward on her stool, tipping her head every time he tries to avoid her accusing gaze. "You refused to shag me because a woman who talks posh, who _talks back_ , a woman capable of punching your lights out, a woman who _isn't_ afraid of owning her own sexuality – well, she scares the shit out of you, doesn't she, Chief Inspector?"

He meets her gaze, pins it the way she's trying to pin his. "Listen up, Bolly-Kecks, and listen good. I 'ave no interest in shaggin' you."

She turns away with a smile and a scoff. "Right…!"

"I'm not interested in screwin' you," he tells her turned cheek, her burning ear, her drooping curls.

She turns back, pronounces clearly and right in his face. "Bullshit."

He gets a little closer, muttering low, mouth to mouth, breath on breath. "Neither, sweetheart, have I any interest whatsoever in fuckin' you."

Alex opens her mouth but doesn't reply. She breathes against him, jaw clenched and pupils contracting. Fuming and affronted, mesmerised and stumped.

Gene lets the moment stretch a little before slanting his head to one side and letting his gaze lower to her mouth. "Now. That said – lemme make one thing crystal bloody clear. If ever I _do_ take you to bed," his eyes return to hers and he stalls, giving them both a moment to imagine it, "I can assure you it will be the most mind-blowing night of passion of your charmed little life. So I will make damn sure that _you_ are sober enough to appreciate it and _I_ am sober enough to bloody remember it!" He withdraws in his seat, reaches for his wine. "You got that?"

Alex blinks a few times then nods feebly. "Got it."

"Good." He sips his wine, runs his gaze over her. "Anyone ever tell you you've got a mouth like a sewer-rat when you're pissed?"

She sticks out her lower lip, tilts her head. "You have." Then raises her hand. "Luigi—"

"No." Gene grabs her arm and forces it down onto the bar. "You've 'ad enough. I'm takin' you upstairs. By which I mean," he vacates his chair, glares at her from beneath his brows as he throws on his jacket, "I'm walkin' you to your door, Bolly. Just in case you stumble across some poor sod on the stairs and drag him up to your den of sin so you can 'ave your wicked way with him."

He takes her arm and tugs her off her stool. It doesn't take much. She slides limply off, putty in his hands as he spins her round, grabs her jacket from the back of her chair and lifts it to her shoulders.

"You'd _love_ …" she slurs, rocking on her feet as one lax fist aims for and misses its sleeve, "for me to 'ave my wicked way with you. You'd love every second of it, you sanctimonious, repressed—"

"Shut up now." He guides her hand into the sleeve, fits the jacket to her body then shoves her towards the stairwell.

Alex stumbles in the right direction, holding onto bits of furniture or walls as she progresses. She makes it through the doorway and up two stairs before her head swirls and knees crumble, her body falling back against his. He's solid behind her, hands on her hips as he pushes her upwards, one step at a time.

"Hunt," she says, head lolling on his shoulder.

He grimaces, refusing to look at her. "Wot."

She pauses, fingertips outstretched to trace the walls either side of them as they unsteadily ascend. She turns her head and breathes in his ear. "Can I tell you a secret?"

His chest huffs beneath her shoulder blades. "Another one?"

"That bloke. With the braces." Her eyes screw shut at the memory. "He was awful..."

Gene shunts her up another step. "He was wearin' braces, Bolly. What the hell'd you expect?"

"I mean, he had a tiny little—" She holds up her pinky finger, cocks it in the air.

He envelopes it in his hand, puts it away. "Oright."

"And, in the end, he didn't even make me—!"

"Oh, good glory, woman, shut it."

He shoves her off him as they reach the landing. She reaches for the doorframe of her flat as an alternative source of support, putting her back against it and facing him. Her eyes drop as she admits:

"I only said it was amazing because—"

"I know why y'said it," he mutters, shuffling closer. "You're not the only one who can psychologinise."

She checks her brain, but concludes: "That's definitely not the right word."

Gene bends at the waist, gives a little bow that tilts him towards her. "Shall I tell you a secret now?"

She blinks languidly at him. "Seems fair."

He straightens, head tipped back as he studies her down the length of his nose. "You can talk as posh as you want, rabbit on with all your fancy theories. You can knock me off my feet with your fists, drink as much as you can bloody hold and proposition strange men in bars 'til the cows come 'ome." He pauses, lowering his voice to add: "You still don't scare me, Alex Drake."

A smile creeps across her lips. She breathes in and out, her body enjoying the long-awaited reality of standing toe to toe with an equal. The edges of her eyes twitch and chin tips subtly upwards. "I don't?"

His lips purse as his gaze dips to her mouth. "Not even a bit."

She studies him a moment with half-lidded eyes. Then licks her lips and admits, "I won't."

His eyes lift to hers. "Won't what?"

She adjusts her back against the doorframe, clasps her hands behind her. "Proposition strange men in bars. Not anymore. Learned my lesson."

Gene hums, low in his throat. "Which's what?"

She opens her mouth to answer then lowers her gaze and replies, "I'll tell you when I sober."

"Smartest thing you've said all night." He lumbers back a bit, "Well…" then a bit more. He slaps a hand against his jacket pocket, half-turning to go. "Night then. DI Drake."

She smiles, nods, "G'night, Guv," and reaches for her door.

He watches her enter, says to the closing door. "Lock y' door."

She opens it enough to say, "I will."

"Go straight to bed," he adds, more strictly.

She opens the door again, huffs, "I'm going to!"

He leans to one side, peering round the half-closed door. "I'll see y' tomorrow."

Her exasperation instantly fades. She holds onto the door with both hands, leans her temple against her knuckles. "See you tomorrow," she returns softly, before sliding the door shut and flicking the lock.

Gene nods in satisfaction at the sound. Then heads back down the stairs alone.

-x-

In the Quattro, he turns the rear-view mirror to face himself, peers at his own reflection. As some sort of reality check. Because he's half sure he just rejected a second invitation to engage in a drunken sexual romp with Alex Drake. He never thought he'd get one opportunity with a woman like that, let alone two.

He'd downplayed his interest in meaningless sexual romping to her face. But truth is, he's no stranger to the delights of a fast, drunken fuck. Or, at least, he used to be no stranger. Back in Manchester. After the divorce. He hasn't indulged since venturing south. He hasn't felt that animal surge from within, hasn't met a bird he liked the look of well enough. Or something.

Given the choice though – given the opportunity with bird like Bolly – he'd prefer to take his time. Spend the whole damn night on her, he would. He'd need to see her, all of her, undress her slow then eat her up, from top to toe. He'd need to know her – her sounds and smells – he'd want to remember her. Screwing her fully clothed against the entrance to her flat would be stupendous. Fucking unbelievable. A dream come true. And not enough. He'd need more. He'd always want more, when it came to her.

More fool him. Since more is exactly what she can never give him. He knows this. Knows that, with Alex Drake, there's always something held back. There's something about her he can't touch, can't own, can't know or even get near. She's an unattainable being, an impossible puzzle. And that air of impossibility silently precludes exactly what he deep down craves. It's that, if anything, that scares him. Scares the ruddy pants off him. Because he'd forgotten what it felt like to want. To want something as a man, not a copper. To ache with it, pulse with it. Live with it, every day.

The copper in him wants clean streets and an obedient team. Arrests and convictions. Justice, security and peace. Easy feats compared with what the man in him desires. Which is one thing only. One person. One completely impossible woman – and for much longer than just one night.

-x-

She swipes a hand across the mirror, clearing the mist from her reflection. She scrubs her teeth a few times then takes out her toothbrush and points it at herself.

"Do not," she tells herself sternly. "Do. Not." She continues brushing, muttering around the foam, "Don't even think about it, Alex Drake. I will not allow it. I…I reject the idea entirely..."

She ducks her head, spits, straightens then stalls. "Do not fall for that man," she murmurs, head moving slowly back and forth. "He's so…so…"

She sticks the toothbrush back in her mouth to impede that train of thought. Brushes a bit more, spits then rinses. Her refection stays quiet throughout the process. It doesn't say anything as she flicks off the light and slops into the bedroom. Reaching for the curtains, she draws them halfway across the windows before noticing his Quattro still parked on the curb below. The tail lights are on, the exhaust fumes and paint gleams in the moonlight. For once in her 1980s life, she's glad of her lack of a mobile phone. With one, she might be tempted to call him, get him back up here and ravish him the way both of them want. Instead, she lifts a hand to her still swirling head, drawing the curtains closed and climbing into bed alone.

"How can _you_ be my fantasy?" she mutters as she hugs a pillow under her head. "How can _you_ be…"

 _My match? My equal? My soulmate?_ her brain suggests. She receives no rational response, finds no answers before closing her eyes. Alex simply falls asleep with Gene Hunt still on her mind, his name on her lips and his car parked irresolutely on the curb outside.

 _END._


End file.
